Private Spud Tamson

BY

Captain R. W. CAMPBELL

TWELFTH IMPRESSION

William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1916

I TAKE THE LIBERTY TO
Dedicate this Book
TO
MY COMMANDING OFFICER,
MY BROTHER OFFICERS,
AND
THE N.C.O.'S AND MEN
OF
MY GALLANT REGIMENT.

NOTE.

The Glesca Mileeshy is no regiment in particular. The story is simply a composite study of the types who fill the ranks of our Militia Regiments, now known as The Special Reserve. In the near future I hope to give a pen picture of our Territorials—the splendid force with which I am at present connected.

[pg 3]

CHAPTER I.
SPUD TAMSON ENLISTS.

The Glesca Mileeshy was a noble force, recruited from the Weary Willies and Never-works of the famous town of Glasgow. It was also a regiment with traditions, for in the dim and distant past it had been founded by 1000 heroic scallywags from out of the city jails. These men were dressed in tartan breeks and red coats, given a gun and kit, shipped straight to the Peninsula, and on landing there were told to fight or starve.

"We'll fecht," was their unanimous reply, and fight they did. Inured to hardships, they quickly adapted themselves to the tented field, and early displayed a thirst

[pg 4] "Ay—I waant tae jine the Mileeshy."

"Which Militia?"

"The Glesca Mileeshy, of coorse."

"Very well, come with me, and I'll get you a Field-Marshal's baton," said the sergeant with glee, for this recruiter was feeling thirsty and much in need of his half-crown fee. He led Spud into the recruiting office, and told him to strip.

"When did you have a bath last?"

"Last Glesca Fair," answered Spud, quite unashamed of his nigger-like skin.

"What! Ten months ago?"

"Ach! that's naething; ma faither hisna had a waash since he got mairret."

"Well then, what's your age?"

"Age! I dinnae ken!"

"Don't know your age?"

"Naw, but I wis born the year that the auld chap wis sent tae Peterheid."

"Oh, what was that for?"

"Knockin' lumps aff the auld wife's heid wi' a poker."

"Very well, we'll say you're nineteen," added the sergeant. "Now, what's your religion?"

"The Salvation Army. Ye see, the auld [pg 5] chap kept in wi' them, for they gie him a bed when he's 'on the bash.'"

"And what's your occupation?"

"Cornet-player. I blaw the trumpet, an' the auld chap gies oot the balloons and candy."

"What is your full name and address?"

"Spud Tamson, Murder Close, the Gallowgate, five up, ticket number 10,005."

"That's a big number!"

"Ay, that's the number o' fleas in the close."

"Now, my lad, get into that bath and then you'll pass the doctor."

When Spud emerged from the water he was a different lad. The grime of years had gone, leaving his skin pink and fresh. He looked fit indeed with the exception of his spurtle legs and somewhat comical face. However, the old sergeant wanted his half-crown, so Spud had to pass by hook or by crook. He made him hop round the doctor's room like a kangaroo, and when he was just on the verge of failing in the eyesight test he whispered the number of dots in his ear. And so Spud Tamson was passed as a fullblown private into the Glesca Mileeshy.

[pg 6] "There's the shilling. Go home and say good-bye to your friends; but remember, be at the station to-night at eight."

"A' richt, sergint. I'll be there," replied Spud, as he marched proudly out of the door. Soon after, he announced the news to his now fond and proud parents.

"I'm prood o' ye, son," said Mrs Tamson. "Here, tak' yer faither's shirt and Sunday breeks and pawn them. You'll get twa shillin's on them. And bring back a gill o' the best, twa bottles o' table beer, an' a pun' o' ham. We'll hae a feast afore ye gang tae the Mileeshy," concluded his mother, as she handed Spud the articles for pawning. He blithely stepped off, and on his return was followed by all the thirsty members of the "Murder Close Brigade."

"Here's tae Private Spud Tamson of the Glesca Mileeshy," said Mrs Tamson, raising a glass to her lips, and giving Spud a look of pride.

"Ay, he'll be a braw sodger," chimed in an old wife.

"If it wisnae for his legs," said Tamson senior.

"Let's hae a sang," interjected "Hungry [pg 7] Bob," another relative who was a professional militiaman. All were agreed, and Bob commenced to sing—

"Their caps were tattered and battered,

And jackets faded and worn,

Their breeches ragged wi' crawling

When boosey and a' forlorn;

Yet when dressed in the tartan

They're the pride o' the women's eye,

Are the Rusty, Dusty, Deil-may-care,

Plucky Auld G.L.I."

"Hear! hear!" echoed the audience, sipping up the last of the refreshments, then rising to follow Spud to the station.

"What's up?" asked the neighbour, Mrs M'Fatty, as she saw the crowd go marching out of the close.

"D'ye no' ken—Spud Tamson's jined the Mileeshy!"

"D'ye tell me! But he's got bachle legs and bleary een. A braw sodger he'll mak'," said the other with a snicker.

"Oh, but he'll blaw up weel when he gets a skinfu' o' skilly and army duff," said Mrs M'Fatty, shutting her door again.

Meantime Spud was marching to the station, headed by the melodeon and tinwhistle band of the "Murder Close Brigade." [pg 8] It was the proudest day of his life, and he stuck out his chest as he marched into the Central Station.

"In here," said the old sergeant, getting him by the scruff of the neck and half pitching him into a railway carriage for Blacktoon. The whistle blew, and as the train moved out his friends shouted—

"Keep oot o' the Nick, Tamson."

"Pawn your claes an' send me the ticket."

"I'll come oot tae see ye," said his faither.

"If you're no in Barlinnie," shouted Spud as a last farewell, then collapsed down on the seat, to the disgust of a woman next to him.

"Dinnae smother ma wean," she said.

"I'm sorry, missus. I thocht it wis a doll."

"Did ye, ye impident keely. If I wis your mither I wid hae drooned ye."

"I'm ower bonny for that," answered Spud in a good-humoured way.

"Ha! ha! ha! What a face!"

"What's wrang wi' ma face?"

"It's like a burst German sausage."

"She's got ye that time," said an old packman in the opposite corner; "but whaur are ye gaun?"

[pg 9] "Tae jine the Mileeshy."

"Man, I'm a piper in that 'crush.' You'll like it—it's great sport. But mind Sergeant-Major Fireworks. He's a holy terror. He's got a chist like a horse, and a breist o' tin medals. When he howls the dogs start barking, and when he curses he mak's ye shiver as if ye had the fever. But he'll mak' a man o' ye."

"What d'ye get tae eat?"

"Hard breid, skilly, bully beef, an' army duff. You'll smell the beef a mile away. And mind the blankets."

"What's wrang wi' them?"

"They're like the picture shows—movin'. But here's Blacktoon, an' there's a sergint waitin' for ye. I'll see ye at camp, and mine's a pint. Ta-ta," concluded the old warrior, as Spud stepped out to meet the sergeant.

"I'm Private Spud Tamson," said our hero, saluting the sergeant.

"Alright, but don't salute me—salute the heid yins, that's the officers. Quick march." And off went Spud and his escort through the streets of Blacktoon.

There was a smile as the bold Militiaman went by, and a little gang of unwashed [pg 10] urchins joined the procession, singing—

"Oh, this is Jock M'Craw,

A sodger in the raw,

But Bully Beef and Duff

'll mak' him fat an' tough,

And then he'll be

Like Bob M'Gee,

A twelve stane three

Mileeshiman! Mileeshiman!"

[pg 11]

CHAPTER II.
SPUD ARRIVES AT THE DEPOT.

The Depot in Blacktoon was a somewhat ancient affair. In its palmiest days the blood-sucking Hanoverian mercenaries of King Geordie had been quartered there. And during the Russian Scare a score of low jerry-built buildings had been added to house the braw lads hastily summoned to defend their kail-pots and their wives. The Depot was therefore a glorified "Model"—in fact, some of the "Mileeshy" described it as a "bug and flea factory." However, that was not the fault of His Majesty's Government, but rather the result of collecting from the highways and byways all the odds and ends of humanity. Nevertheless, it was a useful institution from a social reformer's point of view. In times of stress and unemployment the Depot became [pg 12] a refuge and soup-kitchen for all those who could muster enough chest measurement and say "99" while an old horse surgeon thumped the lungs with his ironlike fists. And strange to say, it was also viewed by the magistrates as a sort of reformative penitentiary. Many a lad summoned before the bailie for sheep-stealing, burglary, wife-beating, or "getting a lassie into bother," was given the option of "sixty days—or jine the Mileeshy." Naturally, these rapscallions preferred the lesser of the evils, and, in this way, the Secretary of State for War was enabled to put on paper that "The Militia was up to the established strength and filled with men of a hardy and soldier-like kind." Still, these men could fight. Wellington, as I have already said, had found the Glesca Mileeshy able to rise to the noblest heights. So, you see, there was enough of tradition to whet the enthusiasm of the warlike Spud, and as he marched through the barrack gates he swung out his pigeon chest, tightened up his shanks, and swaggered across the parade in the style of a braw "Mileeshiman." The sergeant marched him straight to where Sergeant-Major Fireworks was standing.

[pg 13] "Halt!" the sergeant commanded.

Then addressing the sergeant-major, said, "Private Spud Tamson from Glasgow, sir."

"Umph! You're a beauty. What are you—a burglar or wife-beater, eh?"

"Naw, I'm Spud Tamson, rag merchant, frae Glesca."

"Say 'sir' when you speak to me. And keep your legs to attention. You're a soldier now! Don't scowl at me; I'll have no dumb insolence from you, understand! And remember, you belong to the Glesca Mileeshy, the right of the line and the terror of the whole world."

"I ken a' aboot that. Ma uncle wis in it."

"What was his name?"

"Rab M'Ginty."

"M'Ginty! Why, that was the d—— rascal who sneaked my trousers and stole a barrel of beer."

"Ay, that's him. He's got an' awfu' thirst. I think he's got a sponge in his thrapple."

"Very well. You'll go to 'A' Company. March him off, sergeant." And away went Spud to join the leading company of his regiment.

He was introduced to a barrack-room where twenty men lived under the rule of a [pg 14] red-nosed corporal nicknamed "Beery Bob." The walls of this room were whitewashed and decorated here and there with photos of boxers and ballet girls in tights. Along each side of the room were the little iron beds with rolled-up mattresses and blankets neatly folded. A single shelf contained each man's belongings, while at the end of the room there was a cupboard to hold the rough bread, greasy margarine, and chipped iron bowls and plates. To the sensitive eye the place just looked like a prison, but the average Militiaman regarded it as a palace, for he hailed from a brute creation who only know squalor and misery. Indeed, it was frequently argued that to house these men in a more artistic sphere would be stupid, for the simple reason that they would wipe their feet with the tablecloths and use the saucers for the boot blacking. In any case, it was life under the crudest conditions. On a pay-day it was simply Hell.

Dinner was being served as Spud entered. This consisted of a greasy-looking stew, coupled with queer-looking potatoes. The old soldiers, of course, made sure of receiving the biggest share. This was an unwritten law, handed down from the Army of the [pg 15] Romans, and it was infra dig. for the recruit to object. Imagine the surprise of the hungry Spud Tamson on sitting down to a bone and a couple of potatoes. It was too much for his fiery nature, and, on observing the plate of an old Die-hard next to him, which was loaded up with the choicest titbits, he remarked to him, "You're like Rab Haw—you've eyes bigger than your belly."

"Nane o' yer lip, or I'll knock your pimpled face intae mincemeat."

"Wid ye! D'ye think I'm saft?"

"Shut up, I tell ye."

"Tha'll no' frichten me, auld cock—I'm gem."

"Tak' that," said his opponent, wiping his hand across his face. Spud promptly hit back, with the result that the table went up with a bang and all the dinners crashed to the floor.

"Mak' a ring! Mak' a ring!" shouted the others, for Militiamen dearly love a scrap. In a few seconds this was done. Spud and his enemy off with their jackets, and soon the thud, thud, of blows, and an occasional grunt told of a deadly combat. If Spud was lean, he was wiry, and he had been reared in the school of self-help. He hopped round the old Die-hard like a bantam, and now and [pg 16] then slipped in a terrific blow on the elderly man's corporation.

"Go on the wee yin!"

"Two to one bar one!"

"Slip it across him!"

"Whack his beer barrel!" were some of the rude but encouraging remarks. But all the pluck of Spud was useless against the great hulking form of "Dirty Dick," as his opponent was called. After a ten-minutes' bout Dick gave out a terrible snipe which sent the brave Spud to the floor and caused the blood to spurt from his nose in a regular stream.

That was the end of the combat. Willing hands tended the unconscious Spud, and on his recovery they hailed him as a fit and proper person for the Glesca Mileeshy. Dick, in a true sportsmanlike manner, shook hands and marched the whole crowd to the canteen. There the health of the gallant recruit was pledged with Highland honours, followed by the "Regimental" Anthem of the Glesca Mileeshy—

"Beer, beer, glorious beer,

Fill yourself right up to here;

Don't make a fool of it,

But down with a pail of it,

Glorious, glorious beer."

[pg 17] This episode was duly reported to Tamson senior. That worthy rag-vender was well pleased—so pleased, in fact, that he got fu' on the strength of it, and received a hammering from Mrs Tamson, who cracked the frying-pan over his head. In the Gallowgate, the Murder Close Brigade also hailed the news with pride. Spud was "one of the boys," and they determined to give him a public reception in a fried-fish shop when he returned.

Meantime Spud was being initiated into the arts of the soldier. From the stores he had received a pair of wide, ill-fitting tartan breeks, resembling concertinas, a red jacket, which hung like a sack, a white belt, and a leatherbound Glengarry cap. A penny swagger cane and the inevitable "fag" completed the picture of Spud as a warrior bold. He also received a rifle and equipment. The rifle was an ancient affair, officially known as a "D.P." (Drill Purposes). A certain number of good rifles were allowed to each company for firing purposes. This arrangement, perhaps, saved the lives of many in the Depot of Blacktoon, for the Glesca Mileeshy at large resembled the Dervishes of the Khalifa.

[pg 18] Before dealing with the drilling of Spud on the barrack square I must not forget to record his first ragging affair. This, as in the case of every recruit, occurred on the first night in the barrack-room. It is known as "setting the bed." As each bed is a collapsible affair, kept together by movable bolts and stays, it is quite an easy matter to abstract a few, leaving sufficient to allow the practical jokers to carry out their scheme. On the night in question Spud, of course, was quite unconscious of any trouble to come. When "Lights out" sounded he hopped into bed and soon was fast asleep. His snoring was the signal for the mischievous rascals to crawl out of their beds. Dirty Dick was one. He fastened long strings to the legs of the sleeping man's bed. To the ends of his blankets strings were also attached. During these operations a "ghost" was getting ready by draping a white sheet over his body and tipping his fingers and eyes with phosphorus. A sergeant's sword was also given a touch of gleaming phosphorus. This completed, all scuttled back to their beds and waited for the signal.

"Go," shouted the leader. The strings [pg 19] were tugged, away went the legs, off went the blankets, and with a horrible crash Spud's bed collapsed like a pack of cards on to the floor. His dreams were rudely shattered, and he found himself standing in his shirt-tail 'midst the wreckage, muttering some unparliamentary thoughts. The stillness and darkness of the barrack-room made the affair uncanny. He had just commenced to wonder whether his brain was sound when he was again startled to see a ghost advancing down the room, loudly exclaiming, "Spud Tamson, I am the Ghost of Jack the Ripper. I have come to slit thy gizzard with a sword, so prepare to pass into the land where the angels sell ice-cream and all drinks are free." This eerie person also waved his blazing-sword and hands in such a terrifying way that poor Spud shivered with a strange and awful fear. He thought he was in something like Dante's Inferno. Nearer, nearer came the "Ghost," waving his awful sword. Was he to die? Would he never see his dearly beloved Gallowgate again? And oh, what of his Mary Ann, that romantic Glasgow creature who held his heart in the hollow of her hand? Something had to be done.

[pg 20] Just then he caught the suppressed laughter of his fellows. His fears vanished with the wind. He knew he was being ragged. Again he would show his pluck. Picking up an iron leg of his bed, he waited for the "Ghost" to come quite near.

"Spud Tamson, bare thy black and unwashed neck—I have come to slit it like a butcher cutting a pig——"

Bang! went Spud's iron stanchion. It struck the sword, then Spud gave the "Ghost" a terrific blow below the belt. He howled, then flew at his aggressor like a tiger. In a second the still barrack-room was turned into a boxing-booth. The unseemly noise was so bad that it roused the corporal, "Beery Bob," out of his usual heavy sleep. Well used to these affairs, the corporal, seizing a big stick, jumped out of his bed. Crack went the stick over the nether region of the "Ghost," who at once galloped to bed. Crack went the stick again over Spud's poor meatless form. There was a yell, and Tamson exclaimed, "It wisna me, corporal! It wisna me!"

"Naw, but that wis me. Get tae bed and nae mair o' yer yelpin'," he said, turning [pg 21] in, while the remainder of the Militiamen were laughing underneath the blankets. Poor Spud, realising that he was amongst the Philistines, immediately camped for the night midst the wreckage of his dreams.

[pg 22]

CHAPTER III.
ESPRIT-DE-CORPS.

Sergeant Cursem could drill anything from an elephant to a baboon. His figure was a walking advertisement for Lipton's, while his voice resembled the rasping fog-horns on the Clyde. He had the eye of an eagle, the moustache of a Kaiser, and the finest vocabulary of curse-words in the Army—hence his name of Cursem. Of course he was a Regular, one specially selected to thump duty, drill, and discipline into the motley array annually enlisted to defend his Majesty, his heirs and successors. His was a tough job, but he managed it. His brute personality and muscular strength were sufficient to repel the insolence and insubordination of the average Glesca keely. Naturally, he was famous. Round the hot plates of the "Models," in the ticketed dens [pg 23] of the Gallowgate, and in the stone yards of Barlinnie, there were ancient heroes who recited his deeds and mimicked his adjectives. And Cursem's nicknames were legion. "Blowhard," "Hardneck," "Swankpot," and "Grease lightning," were just a few. Still he was popular, for underneath his rough exterior was a heart of gold. Old swaddies delighted to tell of his gallantry, too, for once on the Frontier of India he had slaughtered ten bloodthirsty Pathans in the space of an hour. Spud and his pals, in consequence, always paraded in fear and awe. When Cursem bellowed "Fall in" they trembled, while his thunderous "'Shun" made them shiver and pale.

Cursem had a stock address for recruits on their first parade. "The first duty of a soldier is obedience," he would say. "If you're told to cut the whiskers off a German, or stick your stomach in front of a pom-pom—do it, and no back answers. You're not paid 'to think,' you're paid to die. And when you die—die like a soldier and a man. It doesn't matter whether you've been a tinker, burglar, or wife-beater, once you're a soldier—you're a gentleman. If you want to get drunk, there's the canteen. Don't [pg 24] go into the beer-shops in town and fill yourself up to the neck, then get arrested for assault and battery. Next—wash yourselves. Some of you chaps haven't had a bath since you were born. Take a pride in yourselves. Cleanliness is next to godliness—you've a chance of getting to heaven if you wash the black collars off your necks. There's enough germs below your finger-nails to kill the Army with itch and fever. And when you're marching—march like guardsmen. Don't waddle like ducks and bulldogs. Stick out your chest. If you haven't got a chest shove some cotton-wool in your tunic. Swing your arms out and straighten up your legs. Step out as if you owned the whole Empire. And keep your eyes off the ground. There's no fag-ends or half-crowns there. Now, answer your regimental names—"

"Tamson,"—"Here."

"M'Fatty,"—"Here."

"Muldoon,"—"Here."

"M'Haggis,"—"Here."

"M'Shortbread,"—"Here."

"Whiskers,"—"Here."

"M'Sloppy,"—"Here."

"M'Ginty,"—"Here."

[pg 25] "Very good—now, we'll do some drill. Squad—'Shun. As you were—put some life in it. 'Shun—by the right—quick march. Step out—hold up your heads—swing out your arms. Left—left—left—right—left. Come along, M'Ginty, you walk like a beer-barrel. Step out, M'Haggis,—you're not at a funeral. Left—right—left—about turn. I said right-about, Tamson, not left-about. Don't sulk and scowl at me. No dumb insolence here, my lad, or I'll clap you in the guard-room. Squad—right turn—lead on. Stop that talking in the ranks. Tamson,—hold your head up."

"Haud your ain—— heid up," muttered Tamson.

"Squad—halt. What do you mean, you tin-chested, bandy-legged rag merchant. Didn't I tell you not to talk in the ranks?"

"It wisnae me—it wis M'Ginty."

"You're a liar, Tamson," answered M'Ginty.

"Silence, you red-haired, spud-bred Irishman. I'll do all the talking here," roared Cursem, his whiskers sticking out like needles and his eyes blazing with anger. "Now, no more nonsense. By the right—quick march. I'll sweat you to death, and [pg 26] make your shirts stick to your back like glue. About turn—keep your eyes off the colonel's cook—she's married and got a family. Right form—come round now—steady—forward—by the right. That's better. Squad—right turn—leave the canteen clock alone—it's not twelve yet, and there's no free beer. Come along, Muldoon,—step out—you get a loaf of bread and a pound of beef to do it on. Halt! Now you can talk about your Mary Ann's," concluded Cursem, after the first spasm. But the rookies had no wind left to talk. They were content to gasp and study in silence the mountainous personality of Sergeant Cursem.

It was also during the minutes at ease that the sergeant discovered the callings and antecedents of his men.

"What do you outside?" he inquired of the pimple-nosed M'Ginty.

"Everybody, sarjint," replied this sharp imp of the streets.

"I thought you were a burglar. And, Muldoon, what's your calling?"

"Gravel crusher, sergint?"

"Umph! What's that?"

"Road merchant and milestone counter."

[pg 27] "You're a tinker, eh?"

"Ay. Hae ye ony tin cans or umbrellas tae mend—I'll dae them for a pint?"

"No. Now, M'Haggis, what are you?"

"A coal merchant."

"Where?"

"Doon below."

"In the pits—I thought that, by your neck. And where did you get the name of Whiskers?" he next inquired of a queer-looking mortal from Cowcaddens.

"Frae ma faither. The hair used tae grow oot o' his nose an' ears. He wis a Hielanman frae Tobermory."

"Umph—I can see the heather sticking out of your toes as well," interjected Cursem. Then turning to Tamson, he asked his pedigree.

"Rags and balloons, sergint."

"I suppose you push the barrow?"

"Na—I blaw the balloons, mak' the candy, and soond the trumpet for the auld chap."

"Where did you get that broken nose?"

"In a fish shop."

"A fight?"

"Ay—an Italian hit me wi' a bottle for pinchin' a plate."

[pg 28] "Well—you're a lot of beauties," said Cursem, addressing the crowd. "You could steal the hair off a billiard ball and burgle the Bank of England in broad daylight. But never mind, lads," he continued, in a more intimate and kindly way, "you're doing your little bit for your country. That's more than some of the vulgar rich can do. And you can all stop a bullet, or plank a bayonet in a German's stomach. Hooligans can be heroes just as well as aristocrats. This old Militia was first raised in a prison and died like heroes in the Peninsula. And I've seen men like you slicing the heads off big fat niggers out in India. And, mind you, I would sooner lead a company of the Glesca Mileeshy than a company of Oxford grads."

"Why, sergint?" ventured one of the squad.

"These gents think too much—you don't. A good soldier never thinks. If he does, he's a nuisance. A soldier's a man who doesn't ask why he's got to die. He does it, and that's the end of it. And I want to talk to you now about Esprit-de-Corps."

"What's that, sergint?"

[pg 29] "Esprit-de-Corps means that you've got to feel and believe that you're equal to a hundred niggers, ten Frenchmen, five Germans, and a couple of Yanks."

"Is that no' swank?" asked Tamson.

"Well—yes. What you call swank won Waterloo, the Crimea, and the Mutiny. See! But just to make it clear, gather round here and I'll tell you of a fight I was once in."

The recruits came closer, for when Cursem opened up his heart they loved him. And then all liked to hear the yarns of the tented field. And Cursem was a clever enough soldier to know that this was the best way to let these simple-hearted youngsters understand that tradition and duty are the mainsprings of an army.

"You see, this affair happened out on the Frontier. That's where the sun peels your nose like a banana, and gives you a thirst that gallons can't kill. Well, we had been marching, skirmishing, and killing for nearly six months. We had lost half of the regiment with bullets, fever, and sunstroke when we arrived at a place called Fugee. There the old colonel told us that there were three thousand oily-skinned Dacoits [pg 30] waiting to kill us out by a night attack. Mark you, we were only five hundred strong, and half-starved at that. The nearest garrison was 100 miles away, and we had only rations for three days. Pretty tight, I tell you. So the officers and sergeants had a pow-wow. The colonel put it straight to us when he said, 'It's fight and get out, or stand still and get butchered to death.' We voted to fight. 'Very well—we'll burn our camp baggage, spare rifles, and everything we can't carry on our backs. Then we shall sally out at night. 'A' Company will make a feint at the enemy, while the remaining companies slip round their rear. 'A' must fight its way through or perish, while the remainder must also take pot-luck. Do you agree?' We all said 'Yes,' and went back to get ready.

"Everything was burned. And as I was in 'A' I got my boys ready for their job. The old colonel shook hands with every man of 'A,' and wished us luck. He never expected to see us again. Then out we crawled to the foot of the hills. It was as dark as the devil's waistcoat. And now and then we fell into dongas and holes. [pg 31] No one spoke, and all tried to keep behind the captain, who had an illuminated compass. For over an hour we stumbled along, when the captain whispered 'Halt!'

"'Sergeant,' said he, 'I can smell niggers. Come with me for a minute.' We went forward. 'Steady!' says he; 'there's one asleep.' And before I could say Jack Robinson his sword was in the nigger's stomach. The beggar roared like a donkey, and that started the bother. In a minute the hills were ablaze with bullet flashes. The captain was shot dead; so was the subaltern. My helmet was riddled, and I got pinned in the leg. Just then the dawn broke, and I saw one chance for us all—through a little valley. ''A' Company, fix bayonets—charge,' I roared. And didn't the boys come on. All Glasgow lads—and plucky ones. We shot, bayoneted, kicked, battered, and cursed through a thousand dirty-smelling Dacoits. They made mincemeat of twenty of us in five minutes. I was bleeding like a pig, for they were cutting me up for sandwiches. But on I went with the remainder of the company. The shots, the whistling knives, the wild yells and curses made it just like hell. Yes; that's [pg 32] the word. Once I looked back and saw the enemy disembowelling some of our boys. Just then our silly bugler, who got in a funk, sounded the 'Retire.'"

"And did you, sergint?" asked Tamson.

"No—I shot him dead. The battlefield's no place for fools. Well, we cut, cursed, and blundered through till we got on to a hill. There were only ten of us left. You see, we had tackled the main body, so that I knew the regiment had got safely through. It was hopeless for us to follow. We were cut off. It was to be a last stand for us all. The enemy had shied clear for a while. They knew they could get us any old time. So I got the boys to build a sangar, and we lay down. There was no water, and we had only a few biscuits to last us out. Our throats were parched, our tongues hanging out, and nearly every man had some kind of wound. We tied them up with rags. But oh, my God, the sun! It burnt the sinews of our legs, and sent one fellow raving mad. He rushed down the hill like a mad priest, and in five minutes he was shot dead and disembowelled by the outposts of the enemy. All through the night the Dacoits chanted their death songs, for they [pg 33] were biding their time. For three days we lived like that. Four more died. And on the fourth day the enemy drew near for the final murder of us all. We were weak, but frenzy made us strong. I fired as if I was at Bisley, and potted ten of them dead. All the others did the same. That stopped their rush. But only for an hour. Then they crept on again. Nearer they came. I could smell them—their dirty, evil eyes were mocking us. But every head that popped up from behind a stone got bashed with a bullet. Then our ammunition went done. I had one round left. I heard them come on. I felt it was domino for us all. My brain was going; blood was trickling down my shoulder; but just as my memory snapped I heard the echo of a bugle and cheer. The relief column had got through. When I came to I was in hospital. I was a lunatic for six months, and the only one left out of a hundred men. That's what we call Esprit-de-Corps. Do you understand what I mean now?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Ay, sergint," was the humble response from all.

"Squad—Dismiss," and off they trooped [pg 34] to the barrack-room with the spirit of duty and honour in their souls. That's how Sergeant Cursem drilled the Glesca Mileeshy. And that is how he earned his Victoria Cross.

[pg 35]

CHAPTER IV.
DISCUSSING THE OFFICERS.

"Ginger!"

"Ay, Spud."

"Whut's a colonel?"

"Oh, he's the heid bummer o' the Mileeshy. The man that curses everybody on parade."

"Yon fat man wi' the red nose an' the medals?"

"Ay."

"Whut did he get his medals for?"

"Slicing beef-steaks aff the niggers in Egypt. D'ye ken his nickname?"

"Na."

"It's 'Corkleg.' He's only got wan leg. A nigger chowed it aff in the Soudan."

"Whut dis he work at when the Mileeshy's no 'up'?"

"He shoots phaisants an' kills rabbits."

[pg 36] "Ay, an' whut's yon gless in his ee fur?"

"Tae see if yer buttons are clean, an' they're nae fleas on yer bonnet."

"An', Ginger, wha's yon wee man wi' the rid hair an' pinted neb?"

"That's the 'Dandy Major.' He can scoff a bottle tae his brekfist. He's awfu' fond o' actresses. They ca' him 'Dandy Dick.' He wis in the Regulars, but he got chucked oot for hittin' the colonel on the nose."

"Whut aboot?"

"A wumin, of coorse,—weemin an' wine is whut they chaps live for."

"Then there's Captain Hardup—wha's he?"

"He's a professional Mileeshiman, wan o' thae chaps that mak's a leevin' oot o' the Mileeshy. He's a ranker. Rankers ken owre much. There's naethin' like a real toff for an officer. They've got the bluid, an' the men ay follow them in action. Hae ye seen oor captain yet, Spud?"

"Na."

"Weel, he's the real Mackay. His auld man's a Duke. He wears corsets, an' pits pooder on his face, and speaks in a hawhaw wey, but he's a guid yin. He's ay got [pg 37] a hauf-quid to gie the lads a drink. D'ye ken——"

"Whut?"

"He knocked a man oot last camp. Dirty Bob, a daft piper, wis a bit fu', and said he wid lay the captain oot.

"'How dare you?' ses the captain.

"'Ay, I wid dare,' says Dirty Bob.

"'Take that, you beastly fellow,' ses the captain, stretchin' him oot like a deid yin. An' that's no' the end o't. Next mornin' he sent for Bob. Ses he, 'There's a half-sovereign to you—see and behave yourself in future.' Bob's the best sodger in the company noo. Thae toffs ken hoo tae haun'le men."

"Whut wey are these officers no' in the Regulars, Ginger?"

"They're like us—they hinna got muckle brains. The Mileeshy's for orphans, unemployed, an' daft folk. But it's the back door tae the Army. If ye can get yer brains an' chest measurement up in the Mileeshy, they'll tak' ye intae the Regulars."

"An' whut are the Non-Commeesioned Officers for?" inquired Spud, still anxious to learn.

"Tae dae a' the dirty work. Ye see, [pg 38] we're a' supposed to be like cuddies—broad backs an' saft heids. The Non-Coms. are peyed tae whup us on—see?"

"Then hoo d'ye get stripes?"

"Some chaps get made lance-corporal for bein' smert; ithers get it for giein' the colour-sergint ten bob. An' some get the stripe for makin' up tae the officer."

"But that's no richt, Ginger?"

"Naethin's richt in the sodgers. Ye're no' supposed tae think. If ye think owre much they'll pit ye in the nick for insubordination. That's whut they ca' Disceeplin. If ye waant tae get on in the Mileeshy, kid ye're daft, an' gie the salaam tae everybody. That's hoo tae get a staff job."

[pg 39]

CHAPTER V.
CANTEEN YARNS.

The unwritten laws of the Glesca Mileeshy were as rigid as the etiquette of the Brigade of Guards. The most important was that which compelled recruits to "stand their hand," or, in plain English, give free drinks all round. This to the cultured instinct may seem a somewhat coarse enactment, but to an old Militia hand, possessed of an Indian thirst, it was all-important and always demanded. The recruit's first pay-day was usually selected for this purpose. Pay-day in the Militia, I may say, is just a sort of Dante's Inferno in miniature. And in the times of Spud Tamson the weekly pay amounted to one shilling per day. This would not keep a millionaire in matches, but it was sufficient to lure to the barracks' gate the official and unofficial wives of this [pg 40] regiment, as well as to rouse in the breasts of their noble lovers dreams of foaming ale and nights of song and story.

Just as German students have their beer clubs and drinking bouts, so did this regiment possess its boosing schools and captains. This was a weird system. Each company had a school, and on pay-day every man paid so much to the captain. The captain divided this money over the days of the week, and thus ensured that all had liquid refreshment till the next pay-day came round. The captain, of course, had other duties. He chaired all meetings in the canteen, maintained law and order, and, more important, he secured patrons possessed of unlimited cash and willing hearts. The recruit, of course, was the most important. A youngster deemed it an honour to sup with those veterans of "Models" and wars, and for the privilege was content to disgorge. Spud was therefore inveigled into one of these schools, and in true Tamson style called for "pints o' the best." For this act he was made the guest of the evening, and so long as his pay lasted the old guard were content to listen to his blethers with all the deference born of thirst and cunning.

[pg 41] The canteen was, of course, under discipline and regulations. A corporal stood at the door to officially measure the pints of ale that trickled down the Militiamen's necks. As soon as a man's head wobbled, and his eyes rolled in a stupid and vacant style, he was seized by the scruff of the neck and given the order of the boot. If he objected, he was marched to the "clink" under escort. This was religiously adhered to in the Glesca Mileeshy for the first hour, but as the clock went round, the very thirsty corporals of this regiment sent duty and regulations to Hong-Kong, and sat down to partake of the feast given free because of their superior rank.

Picture the scene, then,—a long, low room, packed with boozing schools, and badly lit with evil-smelling oil-lamps. Round the tables were seated some of the biggest rogues and many of the biggest-hearted souls in creation. In one corner, the corporal sat blind to all the world; while in the opposite part of the canteen Spud Tamson was seated amidst his new-found friends listening to the tales of woe and war.

"Speakin' aboot funny things," said Rab [pg 42] M'Ginty, "I mind when we were oot at the War on ootpost duty. It wis a rotten job—naethin' but hard chuck an' bully beef. An' every nicht the enemy used tae open fire. We got fed up wi' this, an' thocht oot a scheme tae save us bother. D'ye ken what we did?'

"Na," said the others.

"Weel, we got a' the auld tin cans an' auld dugs we could get oor haunds on. We tied the tin cans tae the barbed wire and every ten yerds we fixed a dug up on a chain."

"Whut fur?" asked Tamson.

"Tae rattle an' bark when the enemy wis comin'. Man, it wis a great thing! And when on duty we could get tae sleep; for the dugs barked when they heard the least soond. But wan nicht we got a terrible fricht. Ye see it wis gey daurk and aboot midnicht, a' the tin cans an' dugs commenced tae rattle an' bark. Then I heard something cherging up and doon the wires. So I let bang! That started it. In five meenits the hale army o' ten thoosan' men were firing. But the cans kept rattlin' an' the dugs barkin'. I wis shiverin' wi' fricht. [pg 43] Tae mak' things worse, there was a terrible braying—an eerie noise in front o' us. We couldnae stop it. Some said it wis auld Kruger's ghost, others said it wis the Deevil himsel'; but, man, it wis awfu'. For twa hoors we fired ten thoosand roonds o' ammuneeshin but that didnae end it."

"Whut wis it?" queried the anxious and interested Spud.

"Wait," said Rab. "We kept on firing till the dawn came. An' then we saw them—dizens o' them lyin' deid."

"The enemy?" some one asked.

"Na! Donkeys."

"Donkeys! Hoo wis that?"

"Ye see, a' the transport cuddies got loose an' wandered. They got mixed up wi' the wires an' that wis the cause o' the bother. Jist fancy, ten thoosan' roonds tae kill three dizen cuddies."

"Did ye get the V.C.?" queried Tamson.

"V.C.! Nae fear. I got ten days in the nick for openin' fire on His Majesty's cuddies."

"Ach, sure an' I've a better yarn than that," said Paddy Doolan.

"Tell it," ordered the captain.

[pg 44] "It was out in India when I was in the ould Dublin Fusiliers. We were at a place nicknamed 'Holipore,' that's where the Holy Fathers pour medicine down the niggers' necks, an' beer down the sodgers'. The affair happened at night. I was on sentry-go, and about twelve I was startled to see a mad fakir wid fire in his eyes and a sword in his fingers advancing on me.

"'Halt!' ses I, shiverin' in my pants. But he never stopped. On he marched.

"'Be jabers, if yes don't halt I'll riddle ye,' I roared. That didn't halt him. I rammed a cartridge in and tried to fire, but divil a bit could I fire. It was jammed, or I was drammed. And then he stopped.

"'Great Sahib,' he said.

"'Yis,' ses I, all shakin'.

"'I am the Chief Priest of the Temple of Skulls. I bless you and annoint you one of my beloved and a son of the faithful. And I command you to ground your arms.'

"'I can't—I'll get the "nick" from the sargint.'

"'Great Sahib, obey, or I shall cut out thy heart and eyes.'

[pg 45] "I dropped my gun like a hot Connemara spud.

"'Sahib, double march and follow me.' Off went the mad fellow into the jungle. I galloped after him. The tigers were roarin', elephants trumpeting and hyenas crying like ould cats. But they fled from the sight of the ould fakir. I was puffin' an' blowin' like a roarin' race-horse, and sweatin' like a pig, when he cried, 'Halt, O Sahib of the great white race.'

"'Not so much of the Sahib,' ses I, 'but give me a drink.'

"'There is no refreshment in the Temple of Skulls. Your blood shall be the refreshment for our Gods. Watch, O Sahib.' And before I could cough the ground opened up before me showing a stair made out of bones.

"'Enter,' said he, like a bloomin' ould butler. Down I went into the devil's hole. It was a temple lit up with oil. The walls were made of skulls, and the floors had carpets made out of Highlanders' kilts, fusiliers' trousers, artillerymen's pants, and cavalrymen's dongarees. Holy Moses! I shivered like a cat on the tiles. As I got in, [pg 46] a dozen mad fellows commenced to play their pumpkin drums, and sing—"

"'Death to the Sahib,

His blood for our Gods,

Death to the Sahib,

His bones for our rods;

Death to the Sahib,

And then he shall know

The secrets of Rahib

The High Priest below.'

"'Ye dirty ould spalpeen,' ses I, knockin' daylight out of the fellow who'd introduced me to this Madame Tussaud's. But he dodged, and pulling a string, I was enveloped in blue flames, and then tied to an altar in front of the Holy Water."

"Have a drink, Paddy." interjected the captain at this point, to the disgust of the fascinated Spud and spell-bound Militiamen.

Paddy quaffed a pint from the foaming tankard, then resumed: "Yes, they got out their scimitors—knives like the master-cook cuts the rations up with. But before slicing the beef-steaks off me the High Priest offered up a prayer 'for the soul of Sahib Paddy Doolan, of the Dublin Fusiliers, who was to be sliced, fried, and eaten on the altar of Rahib, the High Priest of the Twopenny Tube in the Jungle of Tigers and Panthers.' [pg 47] Next, they did a can-can—a sort of Highland fling—round me.

"'Stop,' ses I, 'I'll never get drunk again,' but they just sung—"

"'Death to the Sahib,

His blood for our Gods.'

"Finally, they sharpened their ould ham knives, and with a wild, wild yell, stuck every one into my ould hairy chest. And then I woke up—in hospital."

"In hospital?" queried the amazed Spud.

"Yes, I was in the D.T.'s (delirium tremens)."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the crowd in a rollicking way, for Paddy Doolan was the champion liar in the corps. But his story was sufficient to drag another drink out of the green-eyed Spud, and that was the main point so far as Doolan and his pals were concerned.

"It's your turn now, 'Dominie,'" said the captain to a grizzled old red-nosed warrior, who had seen better days.

"What do you want?"

"Tell us about Algy—some of them haven't heard that yarn."

"Well," said the Dominie, lighting up his [pg 48] old cutty-pipe, "Algy was a gent who listed in my first 'crush'—the Perthshire Kilties. He arrived one night at Fort George with a cabful of luggage, a bicycle, a box of sardines and prunes, and a big printed roll showing how he descended from Willie the Conqueror—that's the chap who led the Normans."

"D'ye mean the Mormons?" interjected Spud.

"No, you fathead. However, Algy rang the bell. When the sergeant opened the gate he saluted, for he thought this was some new officer.

"'I'm a recruit, sergeant,' said Algy.

"'What's yer name?' asked the sergeant.

"'Algy de Verepot—I've been "plucked" at Sandhurst, and I want to get a commission through the ranks.'"

"'You'll be lucky if you get your dinner; but come tae the sergeant-major,' said he, pointing out the sergeant-major's quarters. The sergeant-major gave Algy a welcome, and told his colour-sergeant to coddle and be kind to him.

"In his room he hung up his pedigree, threw around his public-school blazers and badges, and dropped here and there some [pg 49] family notepaper with a handsome crest on it. Every soldier loves a real live toff, so all the boys gave him a hand with his kit, and acted generally as his lackeys.

"'Don't bother about paying me, colour-sergeant,' he said one day. 'I've plenty of money. Keep it and give the boys a drink.' This charmed the company, and he was made a hero. He also ordered superfine clothing, and many other odds and ends, from the Master Tailor and outside tradesmen. 'Just send on the bills,' was his aristocratic command. They were delighted, for the whole garrison was full of the romance of this peer's nephew in the ranks. And the girls—didn't they rush him! Even the officers' daughters went crazy about him. In his private's uniform he used to walk them out to tea. You see they pitied him, and thought he was getting thin on bully beef, toad-in-the-hole, and dead-cat stew. And then the colonel's wife met him. He used to tell her of his fiancée, Lady Gwendoline, and the great times he had with Lord Noddy at his Highland shootings. The dear lady became interested, and even got the length of walking round the ramparts arm-in-arm. Didn't we envy him, for she was [pg 50] a beauty. And they say she kissed the old colonel one night and said, 'Now, dear, you must be kind to that boy and get him his commission.'

"'Certainly! Certainly!' answered the old chap.

"In this way, you see, he got into the hearts of all. And he was as keen as mustard. He used to slope arms and salute in front of the mirror, and 'paid' a man well to clean his kit. At night, too, he used to go to the adjutant's room and get books on drill. The adjutant told him everything.—How the regiment was worked; the keeping of the books, the filing of records, and the recording of the cash in the orderly-room safe.

"'Then the adjutant keeps all the regimental pay in the safe?' he asked of him one night.

"'Oh yes, there are the keys,' replied the captain casually.

"Shortly after this Algy received a wire saying, 'Can you come for grouse-shooting on the Twelfth.—Lord Noddy.' He rushed to the colonel and presented it, at the same time asking for leave.

"'Well, it's unusual, my lad, but seeing [pg 51] who you are, you can go for seven days.' And away went Algy with all his luggage. He got a cheer from the boys as he went through the gate, for he was the idol of all. The seven days passed, but on the eighth no Algy appeared.

"'Private Algy de Verepot absent, sir,' was the report on the morning parade. It startled everybody. It was the talk of the garrison, and caused grief among the ladies in town. Had he been killed! Had he deserted! What had happened! These were the topics of the day. Algy's disappearance caused more commotion than the coronation of a king. And then some strange things were discovered.

"£300 had been stolen from the adjutant's safe.

"A sergeant had lost his false teeth.

"Algy's servant missed all his furlough money.

"The colonel's wife had given Algy a cheque for £50.

"Five officers had lent him a fiver.

"And a barmaid from the town was missing. 'It can't be Algy who has done this!' said the regiment.

"'It was Algy,' telegraphed the police [pg 52] from London, for he was arrested there, and got five years' penal servitude.

"Now, who do you think Algy was?"

"Tell us," cried Spud.

"Algy was the biggest crook in London. He was proved to be the man who stole King Edward's dressing-bag at Euston Station."

Just as Dominie had completed this yarn, the whole canteen was startled with the shout, "Who's a liar?"

"You are—you stole ma pint o' beer—ye thocht I wis drunk."

"Awa' an' bile yer heid," said the aggressor, a tramp piper, whose doublet was well soaked with ale.

Bang! went the fist of the aggrieved private on the piper's nose. In a second the place was turned topsy-turvy. All joined in the fight. Lamps were smashed, tables crashed on the floor, glasses hurled across the room, and all the windows cracked. For ten minutes a deadly battle was waged in the inky darkness. And then some one shouted, "Scoot, boys, scoot—here's the picket coming." And they did scoot. Some jumped through the windows, others hustled through the doors, and then half-staggering [pg 53] and running they reached their barrack-rooms, where, like true Militiamen, they tumbled quietly into bed.

Next morning the Glesca Mileeshy paraded with black eyes and battered noses. As this was the usual thing after pay-day, the colonel simply smiled, and gave the order, "Form fours—right—double march." While they were galloping round the square, this commander remarked, "D—— rascals, but d—— good soldiers."

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

[pg 54]

CHAPTER VI.
THE GARRISON LIGHTWEIGHT.

Spud, having experienced the usual ragging affairs, was now a full-fledged confidant of the older hands. And being of a mischievous turn of mind, he seized every opportunity to play tricks on his unsuspecting comrades. These ragging affairs were great or small according to the mental and physical fitness of the unfortunates. A powerful recruit was let down easily, for obvious reasons. A weakling or "saftie" had "to go through the mill" in an unorthodox way. Beefy M'Fadyen was of the latter kind. Like all of us, he had a pet delusion. His was, that Nature had destined him for a bantam lightweight. As a matter of fact, Beefy couldn't knock a herring off a plate. Still, that did not prevent him from coddling his puny biceps and tackling all the penny automatic [pg 55] punch-balls in the ice-cream shops of the garrison. He devoured boxing literature by the yard, and would slide down the chimney of the Sporting Club to get a free peep at the cracks of the noble art. Naturally, this tickled the funny side of all, especially Spud, who casually inquired of him one day if he could be his trainer.

"Of coorse," said Beefy.

"What d'ye usually train on?"

"Weel, I've had tae get fit on fish suppers, ice-cream, and woodbines."

"And have you boxed ony champions?"

"Oh ay—Wee Broon o' the Coocaddens, and Pud Webster o' the Gallowgate."

"But they're schule laddies. Hooever, that disnae maitter. I'll get ye in training tae box Curly Broon, the ex-champion o' the Garrison."

"Richt ye are."

"But mind ye, Beefy," said Spud solemnly, "you've tae dae whut I tell ye."

"Certainly."

"Noo, the first thing you've got tae dae is tae haund owre yer piy on piy-days."

"Whut fur?"

"Tae get beef-steaks, kippers, an' four ale—that's the stuff tae get yer muscles up."

[pg 56] This and other arrangements were duly completed. In the evening it was publicly announced that Beefy was in training to fight the champion named. The training was somewhat rigorous. After five gallops round the barrack square, Spud applied a hose-pipe to the body of his man. Then coarse towels were used, and now and again Beefy's limbs were scoured with dripping and bath-brick. As he was a little weak in the joints, a touch of blacking was painted round "tae keep oot the cauld." Minor contests were got up in the meantime, and in all these it was arranged to let Beefy have the knock-out blow. This whetted his ardour, and when he was informed that a belt and thirty shillings was to be the prize at the great contest, he became doubly keen.

One Wednesday afternoon, when the officers were having a lawn-tennis party on the green, Spud called his man into the training quarters. There he daubed the usual blacking on his knee and ankle joints, rubbed ham fat on the remainder of his body; next dressed him up in a comic harrier kit, decorated with a skull and cross-bones.

[pg 57] "Noo, Beefy, d'ye see yon green whaur the ladies an' officers are haein' tea an' tennis?"

"Ay."

"Weel, ye've tae gallop roon' that twenty times wife-beating stoppin'."

"Richt ye are, Spud."

"Ready?"

"Ay."

"Go." Off went the poor, unsuspecting mortal. As soon as he started, a hundred waiting heads popped out of the windows to see the fun. Meantime Beefy had reached the green, and, true to his trust, commenced to gallop round. The colonel's wife spotted him first. The awful apparition sent her pale. Mrs M'Haddie, the Provost's wife, let out a shriek, but nearly all the young ladies and subalterns burst into peals of laughter. Colonel Corkleg, however, fumed and cursed like Marlborough's troops in Flanders.